The second time I witnessed Jackson try and kill himself, he was standing in the surf on the ocean?s edge with a .22 in his right hand. It was September, and I squinted down the coastline, hoping to see someone, anyone, witness what was about to happen. But there was no one. No one would ever know what caused the jagged, broken pieces of Jackson to collide into my world. No one would know the whole story, the true story. Not unless I kept him alive. I had to keep him alive. If he was going to die right then and there, he deserved to know who I really was, not just who I was pretending to be. I closed my eyes, not knowing if what I was about to say was going to help or hurt the situation. "Jackson, I?ve been lying to you this whole time."